Over the years I have had quite a variety of surprising gifts from our children, but one particular award, like an unfitted crossword, or jigsaw puzzle not yet attempted to assemble , but in my den, proudly displayed, only taken down on special occasions when a tidy-up was ether due or wished…now I wish I had wishes

The box is not in as good condition as first bought, however the contents are prime and intact. Under these circumstances this package was often cautiously opened, just so I could peek into the great complete complicated designs, wrapped in clear polyethene, a new when bought by the purchaser. This simple gift, demonstrates my sentimental valuables, not in the monetary sense, but possessing many secret foibles and emotion. I wish that wishes could come true, the chance of seeing Toni again, but once again…. disappears where all failed hopes go.

Last night, taking this gift down, brings to my attention, to the plain fact that this memento, is some 25 years old. each time it pleases me, while frightening me at the same time, fearful of my ability to assemble the model to a satisfactory completion, due my warped sense of fate.

Vigilantly looking at all the components within, wary not to break the plastic covering which seals it from age or dust. Gentle placed back into the box as thoughts, sprung from mind of Robert Burns; quotes;………… ‘A man’s a man for ‘a’ that; ‘is there for honest poverty’ ; and for an unknown reason, my favourite ; ‘O Thou! Whatever title suits thee- Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie.

One last glance, at my precious Air fix kit of a Porsche 935 Turbo Sports Supreme Car, before returning it to its place of exhibition. The memory of the giving, and the giver, our daughter Toni, who said to me when presenting her gift, with a cheeky grin, ‘Can’t afford the real thing dad…. But one day, yes one day’ -=-=-=-=-[size="4"][/size]

Young love through any form, is such a strange yearning and emotional state, forming wide eyed pulsating desires of mysterious limits, yet throbbing uncontrollably in pits of agony and self-doubt. Kissing explodes such passion each time meeting, then twisted inners of agonizing hunger pangs of doubt while apart. We boast as young lovers we want to share it, tell the whole wide world, yet jealously keep it secretly close to both bosoms, cutting off anyone who would dare take a step closer. The hope proclaimed to all who will listen, is it will last if creation survives in the same wonderful magical theme everywhere, and there and then some.

The merest touch, whither accidentally or on purpose, sends pulsations into convulsion of ecstasy, beyond any imagination, then falls into bitter sweet agony of uncertainty, exposing loneliness, never felt before, due entirely to the absence of your lover…for even a moment or two. for a single day which seems like time without end, craving for the need being greater as if a dreaded drug. A sigh will bring you running, a glare darkens the heart, hurt way above any suffering gone before.

If it is the love for your children which always bringing comfort at all stages yet fearful they take a departing path away from the bonds of the family. Children are a lucky dip whether cosiness or despairing for you may not like them, but you love unconditionally regardless. At the drop of a hat, your breast burst with pride, for all and sundry to receive the message. A small glance from your child will banish all misgivings

An unforeseen loss is the death of a child, and a child they are, no matter what age, or accomplish or position in society they achieve. This is the worse hurt almost unmentionable endurance. There is a portrait in the head kept with a unknown passion which never changes, giving you a sad comfort you beg will go away. Guilt prevents anything interfering with the picture.

My wife and I have been so lucky even though we have experienced all three loves Would we go through all the tantalizing agony again …. even if forewarned…you can bet your boots we would.-=-=-=-=-

George was a sucker for fridges, he would wallow away a few hours, dreaming of home in the sandy beaches of the Sahara Desert. he thought he did have a den there, owing to the clues, knowing he did not come from the Gobi Desert, for that would just be plain ridiculous. Who ever heard of a polar bear from the Gobi desert? You would have to be right planker, or plain daft, or a bit rough to be contemplating such an idea… and anyway… the number 41 bus doesn’t stop there.

George believed it was only common sense, he truly came from Sahara Desert, as his dad smoked those types of cigarettes, long before it came popular knowledge they were bad for you, but more important these snouts gave bears a horrible smell. George was ignorant of his qualifications or origin, but the basic fact was, he took the hump (just like a camel ‘Dromedary’) or two (Bactrian) when things were not going his way.

Both bear and camel come from around the same Palaeogene era, adding to this, as if to qualify its authenticity, George’s Aunt used to drink the dark Camel Coffee, bought from a shop in Dubai by some troops from the Royal Fusiliers. George does not talk much about his aunt, because of her wobbly morals. The coffee was a bribe, so she would take the soldiers, not up to the front but to local brothels which did not sell hot broth soup but were ill-reputed bawdyhouses.

Confronted by a rather odd polar bear, at your front door, tends to leave you speechless or chattering out something trivial. The latter was my response, asking the bear, who I now I know as George, why he came to use the number 41 bus to my home. He retorted with an imitation rumble and a wink in his eye (well I conclude it was a wink) ‘The number 12 bus does not pass your door and neither does the subway come to think of it?’ There was something about his ability to speak I could not put my finger on.

Arriving at 12 Calvay Place, he immediately made himself at home. We did discover he was encourage by the knowledge of a group of authentic synthetic yellow ducks residing within and growing in numbers. He made a beeline for the fridge… to slip into something cool. From then on, when the idea took him, he settled in the fridge for a couple of hours.

George always avoided treading on the butter …for butter was the substance of life. Not water or air but glorious sacred butter. Not one breath was breathed on, or hair was ever left on butter in the fridge George had visited or honoured with his presence. How or why he came from Sahara he did not ken, he just knew. [size="4"][/size]

Now is the age of the internet, the amazing antics of the mobile phones, with apps, which can, at the touch of a screen, access to the whole world, but instantly, isolate the person… even in crowded room. ‘Google’ has become the fount of knowledge, debatably? But, what a marvellous wonder for the modern world it is. When I was a youngster, Books were the path to knowledge, thought by onlookers as isolators from the so called real world, ‘got his nose in a book again, ignorant what is happening around him!’.

Well before my teens, I was lucky to be able to read quite a lot, which varied from a restricted comic per week, and boy’s adventure books such as Kidnapped, Three Musketeers, Treasure Island, and Gulliver’s Travels. Wow, turning each page as time passed by unaided, then listening to ‘Dane Dare, pilot of the future,’ Broadcasted from Luxembourg, on John’s huge crystal set, with earphone… as I dreamt having the simple power to say, ‘yes or no’ to fate…

The idea of books is to challenge the mind to think, the reader finds their own passage through the sea of words, written for pleasure, delight, information, and query. Reading Gulliver’s Travels with a boy’s ingenuous mind, relishing deeply the wonder of the faraway places, brought to life by writer Jonathan Swift, as an journey. Fascinated by the possibility of the happenings laid before me, I could not help but to be intrigued and occupied by it all the raw exploits, and I swam in it. The Three musketeers being another fabulous yarn, mainly for young boys to gobble up. The Musketeers as a bond of pure friendship…and Gulliver going where no man had gone before.

In my later teens, when we believed we were doing everything for the first time ever, as revolutionaries, against the humdrum society, searching the libraries for books with serious theories of existence and the big question… why? There appeared to be many theories why we are here on precious earth, one being picked out as very special in the whole plan of things…the opposite end, the planet was a floating germ, in the massive universe, or an experiment and we are an accident. Why, what, and how…nobody knows…. but it was fun speculating

Now, having journeyed through Gulliver’s Travels, and all the other treasured boy’s books, at various stages of my life, springs new surprises, diverse ways of looking at a turn of phrase, to start these wee gray cells moving again. Jonathan Swift, ridiculing with parody, melodramatically revealing and criticizes the utter exploitation, by the ruling classes, towards the common people. It took some moons to discover the satire behind the words, giving me a fascinating insight into another level of its true meaning. Even now, I am not too sure if I caught it all.

Now to me, it displayed the obvious, of mans greed and willingness, at the drop of a hat, to battle over the most trivial things, as the example of egg tops dispatch in the first chapter of the Lilliputian kingdom.

We believe we are now more civilized than any time before, but …it seems in human nature…it’s what we are willing to tolerate… is fickle… and dangerously furtive [size="4"][/size]

Throughout the dead of night, the wind mystically maliciously disturbed and misdirected chilly elements habituating within the darkness, meandering in and out the deserted streets and alleyways…then collectively resting, for unscheduled moments, in secretive foreboding places, mysterious to the sleeping human race…then vanish, swiftly and boundlessly, when daylight makes yawning moves.

Within the house in question, up some grubby unstable stairs, to the top room facing the street, lay restlessly a tired old man endeavouring to sleep, anxious about the bare fact he was now all-alone in the world. His mate, his long and caring comrade had lost the struggle for life, the only living breathing soul who unreservedly cared for him, showing love and affection without favour.

They had been together for some 12 years before his dog, ‘Sammy’ demised without warning…. just the day before. The old man clutched tightly his fading photograph of him, with a mixture of pride and anxiety, while uncontrollably tears of longing dribble down his rough cheeks.

The dishevelled room escaped total darkness, except captured in forgotten corners, because of the remarkably bright streetlight beaming brightly straight across the street, directly into the room, through the window covered with tread bearing curtains. The old man lay resting on the bed, opposite the unadorned wall, heaped in uncertainness and dread what the future would now bring, Unruly drafts of harsh squalls, caused by ill- lifted sash decomposing timbered windows, flapped those drapes back and forth… instigating shades, and structures… real as real as shadows could be.

Outside, adjacent to the window…. the deep-rooted crippled tree, once struck by lightning, has haywire branches swaying against the unforeseen gust, adds to some sort of malevolent carnival of black magical spectral pictures … momentary on the manky wall. Rattling decaying window frames echoes the drama. The forlorn moments slowly past by as the man’s nerves come near a crushing breakdown.

The wall now held an existence of its own, as he timorously keeked from underneath a dank cover, moistness due to uncontrollably perspiration from his aching body underneath, triggered by vagueness trepidation of impending doom and decay. The old man held onto the image of his faithful hound, struggling keeping his sanity, but no matter how hard he tried to keep this single thought… it was a losing battle.

Without warning, an unknown flurry erupted just outside a cracked pane, almost shook the window out of its fatigued frame, causing such a hullaballoo with everything it came into contact…the man froze with utter terror. At the very same moment, an uninvited noise bellowed around the room, while outside the dwelling, the impression the worn-out hoary tree lifting clear from the rotten roots. The deceased feeble tree, toing and froing, while the maukit wall, unexpectedly presented a frightening image ,looking of a dog’s gigantic jaw …filled with massive sharp teeth, as if it was ready to jump out of the wall and attack.

No one went near the old man’s abode until a worried community helper called for assistance from the police, who burst in the flimsy painted front door. Up on the landing, the reeking front room was in a muddle, while on the empty bed, other than one manky cover, and a crumpled photo of a dog…reputed to be the old man’s pet.

It was said…a few neighbours heard a cry of agenizing pain approaching from the room, during the terrible night of the storm… but where was the old man who once lived there…no one knew…and the truth…no one cared.

It is always possible to live another day…well almost;-=-=-=-=-[size="4"][/size]

Aunt Becky is well content each time I visit the home, to take her for a hurl with the tartan top twenty blazing away. She has this constant gaze of pleasant wonderment about her, and a willingness to chat to anyone within reach. The staff have informed us she has picked up in her eating and more important drinking liquids

‘She who must be obeyed’ has regained her delightful smile as each day I can see an improvement which recently was beyond the ken. We are both growing old, wishing to gain the best we can that the ability of life will allow …pure dead brilliant

For me personally It has been, and still is a curious humdinger Dodgem-car, Walzers, Helter-skelter, Dundee swing expedition so far, with the suspended unknown ending somewhere around the corner. Although it has been a remarkable time over the past 26 odd years, I had a growing desired to halt all the social activities, to follow personal wishes, with family and close friends, a flexible diary to choice from, and find new avenues to entertain life.

This plan has had to be put on the back burner, as the director, a very good man, of my main housing Association, has decided to take early retirement, which means all hands to the deck, follow protocol and advice, consultations, meeting with the Scottish regulatory and their arduous requirements, selecting candidates, intense interviews, intense selection and installing a new director. All this takes time…I have given my word to complete the task

Doing a wee exercise each morning, noon, and night, not to look like the impossible Mr Universe, but to ease the painful joints which ache when at one time gave me a great deal of pleasure. There are definite signs this slight physical regime is working, to allow further preparations to have the best out of this summer I can…and perhaps a last swan around in France. [size="4"][/size]

It’s dark, darker than usual, so dark, the bleakness casts a shadow filled with hollowness. A faint flicker of light beacon from the cooker’s clock, feebly attempts to sneak in past the kitchenette gloom, but beaten back by sheer blackness of the room’s abyss. There always lingered a haunting threat behind the doors of this tiny flat, however, at this precise moment, hiding from daylight, disguises something extra alluringly horror.

Some sort of toxic wave creeps within the peeling wallpaper, whereas unheeded murmurs continuously recur, time and again, from unknown origin, causing murkier vibrations. Four feeble walls rejecting echoes of the smitten atmosphere of a recent hideous occurrence, which bounced uncontrollably across the forbidden floor, avoiding the centre area like a plague

There was no mistaking, just seconds ago, he lazily woke up between soiled sheets. The dampness, which the council say was condensation, seems to add to the itchy touchy evil in this house’s stale aroma … adding to this miserable place

What kind of person would linger in such a manky hole, let alone sleep within such eeriness. It would take a special kind of depraved unemotional being to remain there, an individual lacking a conscious, even when his actions imitate a human. Now; just a self-pitying petrified bewildered soul, whose physique is frozen to the bed, by invisible threads of fear, no wishful heaven but a bloody tormenting hell, threatening to devour his very thoughts… if not… his all.

With a final nervous determination, he tried to look into the middle of the room, knowing evil lurked within as graveness returns. His mind was now numb. Then suddenly…without any warning… the last piece of the repulsive simulated jigsaw, fell into place, explodes within his pounding head.

Spread out unnaturally, in the core of the room…drowning in a pool of congealed blood…a motionless body, once a human being, but now a grotesque form of an unidentified victim, whose head had been caved in beyond recognition…a blood-stained hammer lay close by. This was no illusion, but reality which he could not remember… with one unanswered question…going over repeatedly…Did he do it?[/size][size="3"]

It leaks now and then, but more now than ever then, you become a picky pedantic, or grumpier, or both. Waking up as you usually do of a morning …yet, from the start, something isn’t quite right. You cannot put your finger on it but, almost the moment you come to your awaken senses, opening your eyes ever so slightly ……it’s crystal clear…its going to be… one of them days.

One teeny weeny movement in the bed, aged aches appear out of the blue, as darts of discomfort suddenly let you know of their aggressive existence. This swiftly follows the realization of a pounding headache, to beat all headaches in the bleary head, presuming caused by broken and interrupting sleep, whilst the bed clothes are twisted round…and the beloved stole the rest of the duvet. Not a wink did you get. The mood is solemn.

Out of the safety of the now possession of the eiderdown, your big toe bashes against the stump at the bottom of the bed, screams of profanity, followed with very bad language, directed to the offending stub closest to the bed. You are sorely tempted to kick the wrongdoer stump, but on reflection, you remember it will only cause you more pain

Drawing back the curtains you aren’t surprised Its bloody raining again knowledge you had almost before wakening…this would be a biblical day, for this must be the fortieth day it’s been plummeting down. Oh divinity, give us a break, no time to build a boat never mind collecting all those bloody animals. Now keech hits the fan, just as you trip over some slippers. What hellish fool left those big flappers there but after a squint, they appear to be your old flip-flops, so someone must have moved them

Drowsily making your way to the bathroom, the tattered old dressing gown will not allow your arm in, and again you trip over the belt dangling down .It is all your own fault but you do not see it that way, for your mental coordination is slightly tilted against your physical response. Who never mopped up that whatever it is you stood on …hope it isn’t night-soil…. its sticky though! The bloody soft toilet roll is on backwards again…you can’t find the beginning…now look what it’s made me do…running out uncontrollably, piling up on the wet bit you stood on… hope it’s not poo.

The tiles on the floor are extra cold, oh Jehovah… The shower knobs have been tampered with, bet it was done deliberately. You imitate the stress of’ ‘Goldilocks and the three bears;’ because you know definitely, someone has been using your toothbrush, and for illegal doings. The day is ruined, and it has not begun

You would go back to bed but bet its stone cold now. Deciding against the odds, you just do that, even if the bed is cold, however on entering the bedroom, you discover to your horror, the unpaid maid has stripped the bed for wash-day…####*?

The period was the worse of times, certainly not the best of times, as time itself evaporated into oblivion. A curse with no grip on reason, or want, spellbound in a vacuum of darkest duration. Tales of the supernatural abundant in the bewildered pockets of communities, connected only by wafer trodden trails. All this…and more since the balance of existence was lost, seemingly forever

A small rugged path thickly covered by bushes, thorns, large overhanging branch trees, only a stone throws away from the main walkway leading away from the dingy alehouse. This was where two footpadder swiines waited to attack marked quarry. These scum-bags named Argo and Brent, who had ‘BC’ (bad Character) branded on his right hand, while Argo’s cheek crudely branded ‘T&F’(Thief, fraymeker) both undoubtedly thieves, however, unknown to the whole world, also were barbaric murderers. They covered their tell-tale signs, while in company good or bad, with filthy tacky cloth rapped around their scrawny faces pretending to be suffering from some pox or ailment.

These gentlemen had been in the local tavern when an innocent traveller and his daughter entered the drinking hovel. The trekker was a domestic appliance supplier, along with his attractive offspring, found themselves forced to take shelter in such an obvious shady establishment. Being mindful under uncertain circumstances, the unnamed traveller took a few coins out of his concealed holdings before opening the door of such a grimy low life place.

Keeping himself between his daughter and the grubby landlord, he requested some bread and ale. What did undoubtedly seal their untimely fate, was the coins to pay were shinny and new. So much so, they caught the eyes of such greedy speculators in human misery. The landlord offered rooms for the night because, although the storm was all but over, it was late, very late for travelling in these parts. The traveller made it perfectly clear, his intentions was to rest a short while, before he and his girl would, by shank's pony, make way to the next fair village along the high walk. No one saw two corrupt vagabonds leave.

They lay in deadly ambush, their personal stench was apparent, but down wind of their victims. Armed with heavy pieces of wood, they pounced down the two hapless souls before they knew what was happening. The first rain of blows smashed the male’s brain, others sent the youngster into unconsciousness. Both animals ravished her in unapproachable lust. They proceeded deliberately battering both faces into pulp, so identifying would be practically impossible, then buried the lifeless bodies in the thicket, allowing nature to do the rest of their bidding. They grudgingly share the tainted booty, grunting at the displeasure in doing so.

Back in the hovel, these were the same beasts now waiting for the new target. An old man they thought……. a very old feeble man.

The tarnished door to the shaby hostile, slowly creaked open. In the briefest of moments, an ageing squire stood, blocking the light from the rafter’s candles. In one hand, holding a bundle, with the other, he held a staff, to aid in his footsteps. Before taking another step nearer the counter, the elderly man clung tight to his bosom his bundle, seemingly unaware two pair of foreign beady squinty eyes, observing his every move and intention. A tot of fresh water, and a small piece of bread, was all the tired voice asked the devious landlord. The sound of coins, dropping on the uneven counter, was all the two felons dared to hear.

The shifty host inquired about sleeping arrangements, to tempt the elder in., but the old frame refused, insisting in carrying on to the next village. No one saw the two dishonest men leave or if they did, took no heart in it…to warn the elder voyager.

Crouched into the place of surprise attack, with glaikit expressions around their manky gub’s, of great expectations of the darker side. By this time, they were bowfin from all kinds of smells, but their own natural swirl hid this from them.

The old man stepped away from the dirty tavern…walking straight towards those evil of men[/size][size="3"]

No matter how sharp-eyed those two knaves thought they had been while in the grubby inn, they had failed to notice something about this frail old man. Medium built, dressed in the ordinary style of the day, though a bit older fashioned on a second look, tidy in his appearance, except for the very long hair, certainly not a common mode. He possessed even a longer beard than his head hair, though not by much but clean, defiantly clean. The traveller’s hair was pure white.

But, if these two ruffians had had a bit of savvy, they may have caught something about the deep eyes, dark unyielding, most as if they were doing nothing, however, Aristotle reputed wisdom said, ‘Poverty is the parent of revolution and crime’… perhaps not quite right about this, as some people are just born bad and evil. The old man’s eyes were deep dark pools gazing around his surroundings, measuring everything in relation to everything else.

There was tranquillity about the aged man, his planned attackers seemed to have missed, or not bother about, but they should have. Their hearts were filled with murky thoughts, deeds with no emotions, or conscious regrets, as they lay in wait for the right moment. There was no doubt about it…they had wickedness on their minds.

The clear footsteps came all the nearer the hastily organized terror. All at once these duel piranhas jumped out from their hiding; shouting, cursing as loud as possible, stirring themselves courage to beat the breath out of their chosen victim.

The third aged man stood there, in the middle of the make shift path, laying his bundle down, the rose to his full frame, facing the assailants rushing ever so closer. Argo darted away from his direction, coming up behind, while Brent, still screaming profanities headed straight for him. Brent came into contact first, being as close to breathing the quarry’s own air. no shadow could catch the old man raising his hand, then prodded his forefinger deep into his attacker’s neck. Brent stopped in his tracks, his massive body keeled over, hitting the ground like a timbered log. Not one single twitch or muscle spasm followed as he lay there stiff as a board.

Argo on seeing this but not sure what had taken place, carried on ready to crack this old geezer’s head in with a big iron bar. With no sign or intention of panic, the mature wanderer slowly turned around to meet his second opponent, as if timing was not of the essence, just moving through him. The two clashed, the voyager with his staff, seemingly tapping the aggressor’s head. Instantly, steaming red blood shot from a gash appearing straight across the thug’s skull. The wild beast stood as a statue, with no breath of life in him…. crumbled to the ground, dead as dead could be.

The old man turned around once more, not moving from his original spot. He lowered his head gazing at the first thug lying on the ground. Taking several careful steps, the traveller knelt… softly spoke;

“You will live, paralyzed apart from your mind, if that is what you can call it. All the horrors you bestowed on others will visit you every night, with such a vengeance exceeding the night previous torment”. This was said in a quiet, almost in apologetic tone by the traveller as he added firmly “You are not fit to be human.”. Muffled pitiful cries of obviously pain was ignored as he turned in the direction he had intended to go,

With his first step taken on the road in front of him, the old man’s brow wrinkled slightly, more than just facial expression, bearing the destiny of unspecified ordeals if he was to succeed in his tasks, bestowed aeons ago, when there was true sunlight. The traveller recognised fate, his spiritual quest premeditated… eternal searching the unknown…knowing danger would follow as certainly as night follows day.[size="3"][/size]

This era, this epitaph moment was yesterday’s dark ages, multiplied by the absence of recall as time, as we know it, did not exist. Earth’s fragile balance irreversibly broken down to less than just existence. No agriculture, bar the rudimentary basics scraping sustenance from leaf to leaf, where once were castles and towns, are no more, just ruins and small hamlets and glens, filled with fear of the past, ghosts, warlocks, and witches; superstition galore. Fear is the coinage rule; brute force is the law. All that had been, might have been, had been foolishly squandered.

The Traveller; whose actual name is unpronounceable in the language used in this journal, so for this intermittent chronicle; he will be called ‘Traveller’. He has a constant battle between logic and necessity of the moment. All was brought on by man wallow in dirt and disease.

The traveller changed guise for every person he come across… or was it every individual saw him through separate eyes. His wisdom and mission given, not by a divinity, but those beyond the Cosmic Kairos. His credo was to guard the ‘Whole’ existence of mankind, not for the individual, Now, and again, his seeping conscious, swayed his mind, to aid an individual. This idiosyncratic was his only Achilles' heel.

Rambling had not been strenuous to the traveller, at any rate seldom was the destination any closer to him than it had been just after he had started. Nightfall was closing in fast, he decided to camp for the night. Gathering smallish stones, just off the pathway then making a petite hallow cairn, stroking the bottom stones around in circular motion, creating calorimetric energy stored energy, carbon nanotubes ignite with their own volition. Some may see this as magic, black even, but it is just straightforward scientific chemistry…for those aware.

The night produced dreadful storm, complete with howling gales quivering stout trees, and bushes solidly planted. Ghostly aberration suddenly darting from back and forth, whilst a bell far off tolled furiously. The traveller was more than pleased of his flinty warmth which no wind, or gust could demise.

For once the traveller was not awake just before dawn, a hand slowly moved its way across his body and at a snail's pace dipped in behind him. Almost in a very fast blink; the traveller had caught the offending arm, twisted it around so much, the owner screamed for unconditional mercy. The traveller then saw some young peasant lad…the boy saw his black night of vengeance.

“You were lucky laddie, I was asleep only mildly, or I may have broken your neck” the traveller spoke with some concern. Whatever the youth heard soothed him enough to stop struggling and to answer to what he believes to be the one ‘Maleagant’. “Thank you, sir, though I meant you no harm…I was looking for a weapon, so I could rescue my parents, my sister, all kidnapped by the local thugs” All this in one breath but the lad stopped to see any reaction from his found comrade, if indeed the stranger was going to be a comrade.

Not one single blink, or movement from the traveller, as the youngster, almost shouting “Did you not hear the bells of fatality ringing last night, rung by the knob hand of death himself; Embu the butcher” The fledgling gave little time to recover his gulping breath when he added; “All kidnapped by Embu’s beasts and when we could not raise the living tax…sentence just after sunrise, announced by the bell”The boy ceased to speak, looking towards his expected saviour. Then in one last burst of pride called “My name is Talmai; Son of Parlan; leader of our tribe”

In a moment of weakness, the traveller looked into the laddie’s eyes beholding truth and sincerity; hesitated for a brief split second, then rebuked “yes boy; I will help, but you must do exactly as I order or our own lives will be forfeited along with your kin”. He stared hard at the boy….and the boy nodded silently which spoke volumes.

The traveller then offered his water can to the youngster. Talmai took it with grateful hands, having his fill, while the traveller was deep thought, debating with himself…to argue well is the goal of logic [/size][size="4"]

In the wind of myths, the traveller’s being were not this planet or time, but deemed from earth’s aeon protector, ‘Proxima Centaur’, Thee white dwarf star, with a celestial secret. His given mission, by the ultimate ‘spiritual whole’, defining his endless pilgrimage, redemption of the race known as human. whilst it must remain undiscovered by all others.

The traveller will appear as others wish to see him, talk in their dialects, and tongues, allowing him to complete his mission, without disturbances or query. Journeying across this wasteland before him, he looked at the young lad, with sadness in his eyes, well hidden, knowing none of the sparse population, including Tamai’s clan would not survive.

Deadly sun’s rays, were tragically distorted weather conditions, extinguishing all occurrences, for the living and the dead. The reason for all this misfortune was made by the principle players; humans, losing control decades before, abusing all the precious resources here in this simple blue sphere. The temperature in the light is unbearably hot, while night being icier than any winter could be. Scattered woodlands are mostly salt and minute solid crystals fusion of water and of urine. The balance of recovery against over usage of organic properties went drastically wrong. Within a brief and fatal time, man was almost wiped out from the face of the earth.

In the light, unimaginable heat hastened the deadliest plague ever known to man. The yellow, the black combined, scourge humans as much as the untamed curse They themselves have no knowledge of the past… having a primitive survival culture.

The horrific truth, the world could not recoup. Moreover, it was heading for total shutdown. However; right at this moment the traveller had no option but to concede to his conscious for the one against the many. The boy Talmai needed help.

The two tracking towards the source of the doomed bell, with great difficulty keeping in the right direction because of the surprising density of the woods.

Reach a clearing, some thirty odd paces away, was the ruin of an old priestly oratory. The antiquity of this one-time human sanctuary was lost forever, now used by the wild animals as a refuge. “Quite fitting” thought the traveller as he saw a small part of a wall, concealing the crumbling remains of a bell tower.

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